Christmas Vows with the Devil

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Dante

The city sleeps, but I don’t. I never do. Not since…

I push the thought away. I don’t have time for memories today.

Manhattan looks tranquil from my high-rise office.

I watch the glittering skyline slowly being devoured by the early morning light. The buildings are still sparkling like beacons as the fresh flow of sunrise washes over them.

Fat snowflakes drift aimlessly through the air, blanketing the ground below in a soft carpet of pure white.

We’ll have to be careful about spilling blood today.

It might look peaceful from the forty-second floor, but I know better. New York is rotting beneath me, drowning in secrets and blood.

Much of it is my family’s blood.

The Manzos built this city—brick by bloody brick—and I’m the only one left to keep it standing.

My city. My empire.

They call me Il Diavolo. The Devil. Ruthless. Cold. Feared.

It fits, I guess. We built this empire on fear. My father always told me that power isn't given, it's taken.

And he lived that motto ‘til his death.

That was the thing about my father—he never gave me anything. Just lessons—lessons carved into my back and into my mind, until there was nothing left but his way of thinking.

Brutal.

Hard.

Il Diavolo.

I’ve only been soft once in my life. For her, I was soft.

That taught me an important lesson too.

I take a slow sip of whiskey, the burn in my throat fading compared to the bitterness I live with. The father I buried was a cruel man, harder than the streets he ruled with an iron fist.

I was five when he first hit me. Eight when he locked me in a room for three days with no food because I lost a fight with a bigger kid at school. He didn’t care that the kid was bigger—only that I lost.

“Weakness is death,” he’d said as he stood over me, watching me with those calculating eyes. By the time I was twelve, the violence didn’t faze me anymore.

I learned fast. Pain isn’t the worst thing in this world—failure is.

The man I am now? I owe it to him. His cruelty shaped me. But the monster I became— Il Diavolo —that’s all me.

Il Diavolo is the part of me who absorbed his father’s lessons and losses. And sharpened them into something far deadlier than he had ever imagined.

A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. Rocco steps in, his weathered old face as cold as mine.

“It’s time, boss.”

I nod, tossing back the rest of my drink and setting the glass down on the desk. Slipping my bespoke silk blazer on, I double-check my holster, making sure my gun is tucked inside.

We ride the elevator down to the parking garage in silence and I thank my father for surrounding himself with men who don’t like to chit-chat. This is the last thing I want to be doing right now, but business is business. I don’t have the patience to explain anything to anyone right now.

We slip into the dark sedan and move silently through the hushed streets of my city. We are like a caravan of death driving past the Christmas lights twinkling in the storefront windows.

The sight of the holiday trappings decorating the streets creates a strange discontent in my gut. I close my eyes and lean back against the luxurious Italian leather, shutting out the sensation.

I am Il Diavolo. I don’t celebrate Christmas. I don’t celebrate anything other than death.

The car slows to a stop and I breathe a sigh of relief. Let’s get this shit over with.

We pile out of the cars, the cold November air circling me and biting at my skin.

Silk was a stupid choice.

The snow starts falling harder, blanketing the shitty warehouse where these bastards are holding my stolen goods.

My men surround me, shadows moving in sync. We canvas the warehouse, ready to do this clean and fast. There are ten of them inside, but we only need one alive to accomplish our goal.

We need to know who these new kids are. We need to find out why they think they have the balls to cross the Manzo family.

I throw Rocco a stealthy smile and fling open the flimsy metal doors. It’s go time.

“Hello, boys,” I toss out, strolling into the warehouse. The room is buzzing with activity and I look around, spotting pallets upon pallets of my stolen rare wines.

I grin like I’m meeting my boys at the bar for a few beers and the kids freeze, confused by my demeanor. Where the hell is their ringleader?

“Dante Manzo,” one of the men finally sneers. He’s a thick, stocky guy with a handlebar mustache. “I thought the devil didn’t come out in daylight. Or is that vampires? Or maybe it’s just rats.”

“Lucky for me, we still have three minutes until sunrise.”

He barks out a laugh but I can tell he’s nervous.

Il Diavolo wanders into your warehouse full of his stolen shit alone, acting friendly? Shit, I’d be nervous too.

His hand automatically goes to the hidden holster on his hip, but my men are too fast. The first shot is loud—too loud in the hollow space—and then all hell breaks loose.

Bullets fly, bodies hit the ground. I don’t stop moving, firing with precision. I’m taking down anyone stupid enough to aim at me. My heart pounds, but my mind is calm. This is what I was trained for.

It doesn’t last long. It never does when I’m involved.

In minutes, it’s over, and the warehouse is filled with the stench of gunpowder and blood. I step over the bodies, the warmth of victory settling into my bones, but there’s no joy in it.

A kid cowers in the corner, hiding behind a pallet gushing million-dollar wine across the dirty floor.

“Take him,” I instruct, straightening out my jacket and tucking my gun away.

I stroll out of the warehouse but my mind keeps looping back to my father and how he raised me with violence, pain, and fear. And how I would never raise my child this way.

Granted, I don’t have a kid—and there’s no chance of me having one anytime soon.

Hell, I’ve been single for six years. Ever since Gia…

Stop. She doesn’t exist anymore for me.

I turn to Rocco, who’s wiping blood from his face.

"Clean this up. Leave nothing behind."

As I head back to my office building, my mind drifts lazily to thoughts I usually bury deep—thoughts of the life I could have had. My brain warns me not to go there again, but I can’t stop. Gia.

We were young, but I loved her in a way that scared me. I was ready to give up everything for her.

Until that night. Until I saw the proof that her family had betrayed mine. That she betrayed me .

I had to walk away, no matter how much it tore me apart. And now, after all these years, it still haunts me.

But I can’t afford to be haunted.

The city lights cast shadows over my face as we speed through the streets and I bury my regrets deep inside my shattered heart. If I don’t look too closely at my feelings, I don’t have to acknowledge that they are there at all.

***

“They’ve got him downstairs.”

I nod, standing up and adjusting the cuffs of my shirt. “Let’s get this over with.”

The hidden basement is colder than the blustery air outside. The kid tied to the chair in the center of the room is already bloody and shivering.

I see my guys have put in some work on his face. It’s so swollen he can only open one eye. He’s shaking, but trying to hide it.

Good, that makes it more fun.

I circle him slowly, the weight of my father’s favorite knife heavy in my hand. His breath is ragged, uneven.

“You know who I am?” I ask, my voice calm.

He nods, barely able to keep his head up. “ Il Diavolo .”

“And you know what happens to men who steal from me?”

He doesn’t answer. I don’t expect him to.

The fear in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.

I flick the switchblade open, watching the light reflect off the steel as I twirl it between my fingers. “You think you can steal from me? You think I wouldn’t find you?”

“I—please…” His voice cracks as he speaks. I can see the panic rising in him—the failure. It’s pathetic. “I didn’t do anything…”

The blade slices through his skin before he can finish. He screams, his body jerking in the chair, but the ropes hold him tight. Blood runs down his cheek, pooling at the base of his throat. I wipe the knife clean on his shirt.

“That’s the first cut.” I lean closer. “There will be many more. But I’m a fair man, after all. Tell me who you’re working with and I’ll try to make this quick.”

“I can’t.”

The look in his eyes makes me go still.

He’s so young, so goddam young—no older than a high school senior.

I can’t do this shit.

But my father’s voice floods my mind, encircling my throat. It forces me to continue.

“Wrong answer.”

I stab the knife into his side this time, slow and deliberate. I twist it just enough to make sure the pain is excruciating. His scream echoes through the room, but I stay calm, watching him writhe.

Rocco stands in the corner, silent. He’s seen this too many times to flinch.

So have I. But I always make it personal. I want them to feel it, to know that they didn’t just cross any man. They crossed me .

“I’ll ask one more time.” I squat in front of him, staring into his bloodshot eyes. “Who are you working for?”

His breathing is shallow now, blood soaking his shirt. He’s close to breaking. I can feel it.

He whispers something that’s barely audible.

“What was that?” I ask, pressing the knife against his throat.

“P—Pietro…it’s Pietro Russo.”

I smile, satisfied. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

I stand up and nod at Rocco. He knows what to do. The boy won’t be leaving this room alive, but I got what I came for.

Pietro Russo. The new guy in town.

I shoot Enzo a quick look and he nods. He’ll have Russo’s entire history in a matter of hours: phone numbers, properties, net worth, hidden bank accounts, family members, GPS location. That’s why he’s the best in the business.

Russo thought he could steal from me and not pay the price? Now he’ll learn the hard way.

My father would have been proud of the man I’ve become , I tell myself. The thought sends a wave of bitterness over me instead of the pride I wanted to feel.

But as much as I hate him for the way he raised me, he taught me something too—if I ever have a kid, they won’t know this life.

They won’t be shaped by violence or fear. They’ll be better than me.

Better than the Manzos.

Because I’ve seen what this life does to a man.

It turns him into a monster.